A Return, and Other Stories
by andrhats
Summary: Alistair and Micha--Grey Wardens, warriors, friends, lovers. These are their stories. Warning: Slash is contained herein.
1. A Return

**Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, its characters, names and locations are all property of Bioware and EA Games. This is only a fanfic.**

**Right, so I needed to write something different, and since I'm currently playing this rather delightful RPG, I figured that I'd write about a situation I wish existed in the game (as well as a romance option). WARNING: THIS CONTAINS SLASH! If you don't like it, don't read it. Oh, and I suppose there's a bit of OOCness in there as well, though I did my best in keeping the characters in line with their in-game personalities.**

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**A Return  
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Night had fallen upon Ferelden, and the cool air was filled with the buzz of insects and the growls of nocturnal creatures as they foraged or hunted for food. The night was cool, fall setting in after a long and warm summer, the frost setting in just in time for another Blight to fall upon the land. All was quiet, save for the pounding footsteps of one brown-haired Grey Warden as he trudged through a thicket of trees, cursing to himself.

Alistair was angry. His steps were long and quick, not even caring that he was basically stepping through mire and that filthy, mucky water was pouring into his boots by the gallons. Yes, Alistair was angry, but not one would usually expect when it came to this particular Warden. He could have been angry with Morrigan after she had insulted his intelligence for what must have been the thousandth time by now, or he could have been angry with the assassin—Zev, as he liked to be called—for regaling everyone, whether they wanted to or not, with stories of his successful missions. No, Alistair was angry at himself. For what he had done, for what he had said.

"Why did I do that? Why?" he kept asking himself as he avoided stepping into a bog that surely could have been the end of his life right there and then, not even acknowledging it by looking at it. "Why did I say that?" he said out loud.

He had lost control. That was it. The anger, the outrage had built up ever since they left Redcliffe on their way to the Circle of Magi, and had overwhelmed him as they had made camp for the night. He had meant it to be civil conversation, starting off with a simple request to speak with his fellow Warden about what had happened at the castle that had once been his home. But when the elf had simply said that Alistair had been there too and continued piling wood on the fire, like nothing really _significant _ had happened, Alistair had lost it, yelling at the young Warden for even _considering_ that Blood Magic could be an option to solve the problem with the demon that was possessing Connor.

And Alistair didn't understand _why_ he had done so. Micha had eventually come to the conclusion that Blood Magic wasn't worth it and that a visit to the Circle was a better option, which was what Alistair truly wanted. But that was it, wasn't it? Micha had considered the forbidden magic, had even contemplated killing Connor to stop the nightmare that had befallen the castle at Redcliffe. He knew this meant a lot to Alistair, but he still did it…

But still…it didn't justify the outburst or the tongue lashing Alistair had given him. The look of hurt, confusion and—if Alistair had seen it correctly—fear on the elf's face had banished the anger in him immediately, but the damage was already done. With the entire camp staring at them—Morrigan, Sten, Zevran, Leliana, the two dwarves who had happened upon their camp—Alistair had panicked and run off into the forest. No one had come after him. Why would they? They had all just seen their leader insulted and cursed at by one of their own for no apparent reason. For all they knew, Alistair had just gone rogue.

"Damn it," Alistair said, cursing once again under his breath as he came to a stop by the edge of a small lake—more like a pond—and crouched down. He was thirsty, and the water looked okay, unlike the dirty water he had passed on his way through the marsh. It tasted of rot, and he spat it out again quickly. "Damn it!" he shouted, punching the ground beneath him.

"There you are," a familiar voice suddenly said from behind him. Alistair whirled around, hand at his sword's hilt in case of an ambush. He relaxed slightly when he saw that it was Morrigan who had snuck up on him, though remained alert. "I was wondering, and perhaps even hoping, that you had tripped over your own clumsy feet and drowned in a bog. Pity."

"What do you want, Morrigan?" Alistair asked, not in the mood to argue with the witch—for that was what she was, no matter what anyone said—or to have his intelligence insulted again, though he knew he deserved it.

"Is it not obvious?" Morrigan asked, her face completely neutral, her eyes staring into his. "I am here to bring you back the camp so you can explain yourself."

"I don't have to explain myself to _you_," Alistair said, his voice positively poisonous at the last word.

"I could not care less about you," Morrigan said, looking down her nose at him. "But _he_ does, and he wants you to come back."

"What?" Alistair asked. "He's not angry?"

"No, and for some unfathomable reason, _he_ wishes to apologise to _you_, though it clearly should be the other way around," Morrigan said.

"I don't understand," Alistair said, feeling confused. "Why would he want—"

"Honestly, I do not know, nor do I particularly care," Morrigan said, brandishing her staff. "All I know is that our leader commanded it, and I shall follow. Will you come willingly, or shall I have to use force? Please say force. Nothing would satisfy me more than changing into a bear and knocking your tiny brains in."

Alistair sighed, looking at the ground. "I guess I've no choice…"

"Oh, you most definitely have a choice" Morrigan said, her fingers curling slightly to appear like claws.

"Fine, I'll come back," Alistair said hurriedly. He had just spotted something he had never seen before in the eyes of the young witch. Anger. Annoyance and irritation, sure, but never full-blown anger. "Just…don't hurt me," he added, unsure how Morrigan would act at the moment.

"I shan't make any promises," Morrigan said, stepping aside to allow Alistair to pass. "Back to the camp, then."

"Right," Alistair said, dread filling his very being. After a few minutes of brisk and silent walking, he realised something. He looked at Morrigan, who was following a step or two behind him. "Er…"

"What is it now?" she asked with a huff. Morrigan _never_ huffed.

"Do you know the way back?" Alistair asked, trying to do his usual embarrassed grin, failing miserably. "I've gotten…kinda turned around."

Morrigan glared at him for a few seconds before sighing and taking the lead. "Sometimes I wonder what the other Wardens ever saw in you…"

* * *

Alistair had stomped farther through the woods than he thought. What had felt like a ten-minute, brisk walk turned out to actually be over half an hour's worth. At least Morrigan knew the way, which was both a relief and worrying. Why had she followed him? Sure, Micha _could_ have told her to go after him, but Morrigan never really followed the other Warden's directions and orders unless she too saw the wisdom in it—which wasn't all too often. Obviously, from the anger radiating from her right now, Alistair was pretty sure she had _not_ seen any wisdom in this.

Did she pity their leader? Did she want him to square things up with Alistair? No, that couldn't be it. But why else would she go to this length to bring them together again? Unless…no, not that. He wanted to groan.

"Morrigan," he said suddenly, surprising himself. "Please stop."

"What is it _now_?" she asked, turning around to face him. "Have you any more stupid comments to make?"

"Why are you doing this?" Alistair asked. "Why did you come after me?"

"I already told you," she answered. "Micha—"

"Asked you, yeah, I got that part, stupid as I may be," Alistair said. "But why? You've never really done him favours before, have you? Or treated him as anything but a nuisance in general…"

"True enough. So what?"

"It's just…I can't think of any other reason for you to come after me on his behalf like this."

"That reason being…?"

"Is there a thing between you two? I mean, there's been talk among the others, and you two do seem to get rather close whenever we make camp." He scratched his neck, wondering if he was overstepping a line here. The fact that he wasn't just some smudge on the rocks yet was a good sign, he supposed, but still… He dared to look at her. Morrigan's face had not changed from the neutral mask.

"A thing?" she asked eventually. "Please elaborate."

"You know…" Alistair said, already feeling his face heating up as he began to blush. He had never been good at discussing these things. "A thing."

"If you are asking whether or not there is something happening between the Warden and I romantically, then I must disappoint you and say no. The Warden and I are merely conversing on the nature of magic and the ability to shapechange. Childish and stupid as he may seem at times, he is quite interested in learning about it, which is more than I can say for certain _other_ Grey Wardens." She pivoted around, her back facing Alistair. "If that is all, then shall we continue on our way?"

"Yeah, sure," Alistair said, falling into step behind her. For some reason, he was feeling strangely elated. He supposed he was relieved that nothing was happening between this witch and the only other Warden remaining in Ferelden and that she wasn't corrupting him. But there was something gnawing at the back of his mind, as if he didn't truly believe even his own thoughts.

* * *

"You made him cry, you know," Morrigan suddenly said as they passed underneath a broken tree trunk, their steps making the colourful, dead leaves of autumn crunch beneath their boots. The comment had come out of nowhere.

"What?" Alistair asked, surprised.

"You heard me," Morrigan said. "Your irrational and—quite frankly—childish fit touched him somewhere deep inside. I've no idea why, so do not ask. The others did not see him as he went slightly away from the camp, but I did."

"I didn't mean to—"Alistair began, but was interrupted by the witch turning around to face him again.

"What you meant does not matter," she said, that same, chilling fury still in her eyes. "The fact remains that you hurt him far more than any sword, arrow or spell could ever do. I expect you to do something about this. Do you understand?"

Alistair felt a pang in his chest. He hadn't meant for Micha to get hurt, not at all. He just needed to vent his anger at something, and Micha had—unfortunately—been the easiest and most available target. But for the elf to take it this personal…well… "Of course I will," he finally said. "He's my best friend."

"I do wonder about that," Morrigan said. "And…I believe he does as well." Without elaborating, she turned back around, but did not walk just yet. "If you ever do something like this again, Warden, you will sorely regret it."

"I already do," Alistair said, knowing there was no point in asking her about the best friend-part.

"Not nearly as much as you will if you do it again," the witch said.

After another ten minutes or so of silence and walking, they began to hear hushed voices in the distance. The rumbling laughter of one of the dwarves gave them away immediately, and Alistair felt a slight elation at being back at the camp—and then a rock tumbled into his stomach as he remembered that _everyone_ had seen and heard his tantrum—for that was all it had been, really.

"Right, we're here," Morrigan said, pushing a few tree branches aside, revealing the small grove where they had decided to spend the night. "I'd wish you luck, but then again, I really wish to see you fail horribly." With those words of wisdom, Morrigan left Alistair there, heading back towards her tent, isolated from the rest, like always.

Alistair stayed there for a few minutes, just taking deep breaths. From what he could see, Sten—the big bastard he was—was sleeping in his tent, apparently unperturbed by the evening's events. Leliana was conversing with the dwarves. Zevran was sitting by the fire, his skin positively glowing in the light from the flames. And next to him…

Micha had indeed been crying. His puffy eyes gave him away. His shoulder-length, golden blond hair was slightly untidy, as if he had just gotten out of bed. The faded two-tone tattoo of a tree on his forehead was more or less invisible now. He looked miserable, his youthful face marred by sadness. Alistair felt another pang of guilt. But there was something else in there as well. Zevran, the ever-slick, charming elf assassin from Antiva, had his arm around Micha's shoulders, holding him close in an embrace, whispering things into the Warden's ear. Every now and then, a weak smile would spread on Micha's face before it fell into the miserable mask it had assumed a few minutes later.

"Damn assassin," Alistair whispered to himself from his hiding place. He hated Zevran. Assassins were even lower on Alistair's list of things he liked than Blood Magic. But was that _really_ why he hated the other elf, or was it something else? Zevran flirted with Micha all the time, and he was either too oblivious or too innocent to realise so. Every time he did, Alistair would feel a desire to punch the handsome assassin in the mouth.

No one seemed to notice Morrigan casually strolling through the camp and seating herself by her tent, not even Micha, who always noticed whenever a member of their group entered or left his presence. This was bad, Alistair knew. He looked down at his hands, which were shaking. Why were they shaking? Was he really _that_ nervous about this? He had done something stupid and hurt his best friend, yes, but apologising surely shouldn't be that difficult? Micha was the very incarnation of benevolence and forgiveness, even though he had his dark moments, just like everyone else—except for Morrigan and Sten, who both seemed to be just…_dark_.

There was a giggle. Micha had just giggled. Alistair glared at the Antivan elf, who was taking advantage of the Warden's laughter by pulling him closer, practically into his lap.

"How dare he?" Alistair whispered to himself, finally done with worrying about what would happen. He stepped out from the tree line and headed directly for the fire and the two laughing elves. Zevran noticed him first, and Alistair could have sworn he saw the elf's eyes narrow as he continued telling Micha the story that was having the Warden in stitches.

"And then," he said in his thick, exotic accent, "I told the prince: say whatever you will, Your Majesty, but you can't deny that you enjoyed it. The man was furious and had me defenestrated."

Micha giggled again. Alistair had never heard his friend laugh like this, not even at _his_ jokes. He finally reached the fire and stood still, glaring at the assassin.

"Ah, it appears we have a visitor," Zevran said, visibly tightening his hold on Micha, who suddenly looked rather nervous as he gazed up at Alistair. "Come to yell at him some more? I won't let you." He turned his attention to Micha. "Just say the word, and I can remove him."

"No, Zev," Micha said, his voice weak and wavering. The crying seemed to have taken a lot out of him as he struggled to even extract himself from Zevran's embrace. "Alistair and I…need to talk. Alone."

"Alright," Zevran said, releasing the younger elf and standing up as well, looking none-too-pleased. "But I'll stay close. One wrong move, human…" he told Alistair, staring into his eyes as he walked away, out of earshot.

"Do you want to talk somewhere else?" Micha asked, smiling nervously at Alistair. "I…don't think the middle of the camp where everyone else can hear us is the best place, y'know?"

"Sure," Alistair said. He had been seconds away from blurting out an apology and throwing himself at Micha's feet, begging to be forgiven. Maybe it just as well that the Dalish elf wanted some privacy.

"Alright," Micha said. "Come with me."

They walked to the edge of the camp, to where a small stream from which they got the water for their canteens flowed gurgling by. It provided perfect cover, the pine trees forming a little alcove of sorts. Alistair knew that Zevran was close by, but at least the assassin had the decency of making himself unseen and unheard. Micha smiled as he sat down by the stream, patting the ground next to him. Alistair seated himself next to him, heart thumping wildly. Why was it so hard to simply apologise?

"Alistair, I—"Micha began.

"Do you hate me?" Alistair interrupted him, keeping his gaze straight forward, avoiding looking at his friend.

"Excuse me?" the elf asked.

"You heard me," Alistair said, still not looking at him. "Do you hate me? For what I did?"

"What did you do?" asked Micha, looking innocently at him.

"I yelled at you."

"I probably deserved it."

That was what was so infuriating about the young elf at times—he accepted blame all to readily, even though it really wasn't his fault, not wishing to start unnecessary conflicts and battles. Having grown up among the Dalish elves, Alistair had expected Micha to be far more aggressive than the city elves he had known from before, but Micha…Micha was just too soft. That was it, really. Not that Alistair hated him for it—if anything, he loved Micha for it. It was good to see someone show compassion in this horrible world, even though it meant extra trouble at times.

"No, you didn't deserve it," Alistair finally said, still unable to look at him. "If anything, you should have yelled right back at me. I was out of line. I'm sorry."

"What for?" Micha asked. "I completely understand why you were so angry with me. I thought about using Blood Magic to save Connor."

"Yeah, but you decided not to."

"And I contemplated slaying the child in order to exorcise the demon."

"Yet you didn't." Alistair could feel a headache coming on. Once Micha was set on taking the blame, it was hard to get him to stop. Usually impossible, in fact. "I could never imagine you slaying a child—you love them too much."

"Aye, 'tis true," said Micha, sighing. "The mere thought of killing Connor made me sick to my stomach. But still, you were right to—"

"No, I wasn't!" Alistair all but yelled. "I yelled at you for no reason! Had you actually decided to use Blood Magic, I would have been! Had you actually killed Connor, I would have been! But you didn't, and I wasn't!"

"Alistair, I—"

"No!" Alistair said, standing up and pacing back and forth in front of the other Warden. "I don't want to hear another peep from you unless it's to confirm that I was wrong."

Micha looked up at him for a few seconds, sighed and stood up as well, placing a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Listen, Alistair, I know how you must have felt while we were standing inside the castle. You heard me seriously contemplating killing the people you owe so much to…your family. I would have been furious too. Truth be told, I was expecting you to yell at me right then and there."

"You cried," Alistair said, suddenly finding himself unable to tear his eyes away from Micha's still slightly puffy ones. "I made you sad."

"Only because I was…overwhelmed by the tragedies I saw today," Micha said, still holding a hand on his shoulder. "Families torn apart and slaughtered, friends murdered…"

They both fell silent. Alistair had a question he had been waiting to ask for a long time, but had never found the right time. He was pretty sure this wasn't the right time, but…it seemed fitting, somehow. "What is your family like?"

"My family?" Micha asked.

"Yeah," confirmed Alistair. "Mother, father, sister, brother, that type of thing. I never hear you talking about them."

"That's because I don't have them," said Micha, still smiling gently.

"Oh…I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"My father was killed by bandits while defending my mother, who died upon giving birth to me," Micha continued, voice eerily steady as if he was reciting the Chant lyrics. "The clan raised me."

"I—"

"As for brother and sister…well, I never had a sister, but Tamlen was like a brother to me, and I failed him in the ruins." Again, all this was said in a monotonous, almost bored voice. Micha's eyes shifted to look at his feet. "But…to be honest…the only family I've ever had…is you. All of you. You, Morrigan, Zev, Leliana, Sten…we may not always get along, but we always find our way back to each other."

Yeah, a family that tries to entice you into sexual debauchery, Alistair thought, remembering Zevran's unceasing flirting with Micha. He placed his hand on Micha's shoulder, mirroring the other Warden. "I'm sorry I asked, Micha…"

"Don't be. It felt…reliving to tell you about it. Besides, it is only right since you told me about your true lineage."

"Oh yeah, _that_ puddle of mud," said Alistair bitterly. "Royal bastard—in both senses of the word."

Micha giggled. Alistair loved that sound. He had heard the other Warden laugh before, of course, but the giggling was just about the cutest thing he had seen or heard him do, much like the look Micha got on his face when he was irritated. And then it struck him. How hadn't he seen it before now?

"By the way, why are you so edgy around Zev?" Micha asked suddenly, his stance relaxing slightly as he let go of Alistair's shoulder to sit down again, motioning for the brunette to join him once more. "You two are always at each other's throats…"

"I just don't trust assassins, s'all," said Alistair, noticing that Micha was sitting rather close to him. "Plus, he's all…touchy-feely around you."

"Hm?" asked Micha. "How do you mean?"

"The way you were sitting by the fire just now, for example," Alistair continued. "You were practically in his lap. He was stroking your hair. I don't know, I just don't like the way he takes advantage of you like that."

"We elves are very affectionate beings," Micha said, putting his head on Alistair's shoulder, as if to prove a point. "See? There's nothing weird about this to me, or him. Perhaps it is for you humans, though." He righted himself again.

"He's outright flirting with you," Alistair said, missing the feeling of the elf's head already. "I mean, the first thing conversation we ever had with him involved his interests in the…in the…er…" He had _never_ been good with this kind of thing.

"Sexual experiences of life?" Micha asked. He made it sound like the most natural thing to say, though the blush on his face told Alistair otherwise. "Yes…I remember that. Surely he's not interested in doing…that…with me?"

You really are clueless, aren't you, Alistair thought. "I'm pretty sure he is," he said.

"But I…I…he's just a friend, a battle-brother," Micha said, suddenly slightly panicky. "I mean, I like him and all, but not like that, not like y—"he cut himself off, blushing heavily.

"Heh, you really are cute when you're all flustered," Alistair said automatically. Seeing a fierce warrior like Micha like this was delicious.

"Shut up!" Micha exclaimed, embarrassed.

* * *

They stayed there for a while, just lying in the grass and staring up at the stars above them. Alistair liked this. He liked sleeping outdoors, but staring up at the stars had never really been something of interest to him, but with Micha explaining the different constellations and what they meant to his race, Alistair found himself captivated by the night sky. Maybe things weren't so bad, after all.

"Alistair?" Micha asked suddenly, cutting himself off in the middle of a constellation story. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Only if I get to stare luridly as you do so," Alistair said, imitating Zevran's accent as best he could.

"Heh, you sound like him," Micha said.

"I hope not," said Alistair. "I don't want to be like him in any way, especially not speech patterns. Ask away."

"Well, it's not as much a question as it is…a return, of sorts," said Micha, fumbling around in his pocket, pulling out something metallic.

"A return?" Alistair asked.

"Yes, a return," Micha said, looking at the object in his hand. "When we were at Redcliffe, fighting inside the castle, I couldn't help but open a large desk in one of the studies…"

"Yes, and?" Alistair asked, hoping to the Maker that Micha hadn't stolen anything. He had a tendency to take shiny things he liked, Alistair had noticed.

"Well, I remembered what you told me of your childhood there and about your mother…"

Alistair sat up, looking down at Micha, his face serious. "Micha, what did you find?"

Micha looked nervous again. "I think this belongs to you," he said and put the object in Alistair's hand.

At first, Alistair wanted to scoff and tell Micha he was wrong, that it couldn't possibly be it. But when he looked at the shape, the cracks where it had carefully been glued together, the pendant… There was no doubt. This was his mother's necklace, the one he had accidentally broken in a fit of rage so many years before. A strange mix of pain and joy clenched around his heart as he looked from the necklace to Micha and back, his mouth moving but with no sound coming out.

"My…my…" he said.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have taken it, but since it belonged to you and is your only remaining memory of your mother—oh!"

Micha was interrupted by Alistair pulling the young elf up by his arms and embracing him in the tightest hug he had ever gotten.

"Thank you," Alistair whispered over and over. "Thank you."

Micha pulled himself away, blushing. "You're welcome."

Alistair stared at him, still holding the necklace. The gaze was so piercing that Micha began to fidget under it.

This is it, Alistair thought. Now or never. It's time to get to the bottom of this.

Without warning, he leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Micha's. A warm feeling spread from his stomach, his heart fluttering. His first kiss—and it felt so right. At first Micha didn't seem to know what to do, but Alistair soon felt him respond, moving his lips against Alistair's, the elf's hands coming up to cup the human's face in his hands, thumbs stroking the patches of rough hair that was Alistair's excuse for sideburns.

The kiss seemed to last forever, and when they pulled away from each other, their faces were both flushed and they were panting.

"That…" Micha began. "Was…"

"Amazing," Alistair finished.

* * *

"So…does this mean we're…together now?" Micha asked, still blushing like a waif. Alistair liked it.

"I suppose so," Alistair said, lying on his side and looking down at Micha. "Or…I hope so."

"Then I hope so too," Micha said.

"Heh, the assassin is going to be pissed," Alistair said, grinning wickedly.

"He will simply have to find someone else," Micha said. "Perhaps Morrigan…"

"She'd rather stab him in the face with a dagger than let him touch her, I think," Alistair chuckled.

"Speaking of Morrigan," Micha said, rolling on to his side as well. "When you asked me if something was going on between her and me the other night…"

"Yeah?"

"Were you jealous?"

"Oh, I don't know about that…"

Micha stared at him in that way only an elf could, his blue eyes piercing Alistair's until he could do nothing but relent.

"Okay, I was jealous," Alistair admitted. "But I didn't know it yet, okay?"

"Okay," Micha repeated, grinning. "And…all this talk about licking lampposts in the middle of winter…"

"Wouldn't you like to find out?"

**The End**


	2. On Concussions and Bread

**Disclaimer: ****Dragon Age: Origins, its characters, names and locations are all property of Bioware and EA Games. ****This is only a fanfic.**

**Right, so it seems that there was more to Alistair and Micha than I thought ^_^ Upgrading this story to a series of one-shots, methinks.**

* * *

**On Concussions and Bread**

* * *

His shoulder hurt. Alistair grumbled inwardly and turned over on his side, careful not to wake the sleeping form next to him. Sure, taking an arrow in the shoulder for Micha had been his pleasure—and he'd do it again anytime—but the dull throb left behind by Wynne's healing was almost worse than the arrow itself. He tossed and turned—well, turned mostly because of the sleeping Warden beside him—finally coming to the conclusion that he wasn't supposed to sleep that night. Carefully, he eased himself out from underneath the covers, slipping into the light garments he wore underneath his armour and crawled out of the tent he shared with Micha. There was no secret about it anymore. The rest of the camp had pretty much counted on it happening the night Alistair had stormed away.

And no one seemed to have a problem with it, much to Alistair's surprise. Of course, he hadn't _expected _anyone to cry out their displeasure with seeing two men kiss, but still… Oh, if only the other templars could see him now… The Revered Mother would have gone spare!

He allowed himself a small grin as he sat down by the campfire, staring into the flames. It always helped calm him down, and it usually made him tired as well. Gently, he massaged his left shoulder, where a nasty, red mark had been left by the bandit arrow. The weight of his mother's amulet was a comfort as well, though he felt foolish to have broken and lost it to begin with.

The ambush yesterday had been obvious, and Micha had loudly declared that the bandits were free to leave if they so wished—no one had to get hurt. They had responded by opening fire. Alistair had pushed the Dalish elf out of the way, taking the arrow for his lover. Micha…had not been pleased with the bandits then. Alistair had never seen someone as angry before as the elf had thrown himself into a vicious melee, finishing off the bandits swiftly.

He had spent the rest of the day and evening apologising to Alistair, asking if he could ever forgive him despite the fact that the templar had already done so a million times. In the end, Alistair had decided to shut Micha up with a good, old-fashioned romp in the tent—after everyone else had gone to sleep, of course.

Someone sighed, and Alistair looked up. It was Sten's shift on guard duty, and he took the assignment very seriously, it seemed. The white-haired man was standing at the entrance to the camp, his massive sword—returned to him thanks to an exhaustive search effort by Micha—in his hands, staring at the road ahead of them. Alistair didn't know how to feel about the Qunari. Sure, the man was good to have on your side in a fight, and he didn't seem as…violent as the dark-skinned people were described as. But on the other hand, the man was scary, plain and simple. _And_ he had murdered all those people just because his sword was gone. But Micha trusted him—for some incomprehensible reason—and that meant Alistair did too. Sten hadn't shown any signs of betrayal yet, and that was good enough—for now.

Alistair briefly considered walking over to the man and striking up a conversation before he remembered how the Qunari seemed to appreciate silence and peace more than anything else. He decided against it and continued watching the fire, becoming entranced with the dancing shadows and flying embers. He was so focused on this, in fact, that he didn't even hear the footsteps approaching him from behind.

"And what are you thinking about so deeply?" Wynne asked, smiling as Alistair gave a jump at the sudden noise.

"Oh Maker, Wynne, don't sneak up on me like that," Alistair said, grinning embarrassedly, "I nearly soiled myself."

"Heh," the older woman said, sitting down on the log opposite of Alistair's. "Surely you will let an old woman like myself have her fun?"

"Not when it comes to _that_."

"How is your shoulder, Alistair?" she asked seriously, looking at said body part. "I couldn't help but hear your grumbling all the way to my tent. Would you like me to take another look at it?"

"Don't think there's anything you can do," Alistair said, continuing to massage his shoulder. "You said it yourself: the internal damage needs to sort itself out."

"True," Wynne said, nodding.

They both fell silent. Alistair liked Wynne. She was sensible, calm and collected—everything a proper mage should be, unlike Morrigan, who was just a very mean-spirited and vicious hag. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed that Wynne was giving him a look of disapproval.

"What?" he asked.

"I trust you two are enjoying yourselves?" Wynne said, staring at him. "The Warden and you, I mean."

"I'm a Warden too, you know," Alistair said, trying to sound hurt. He had been waiting for this. It was bound to happen, despite the group's insistence on either ignoring or applauding the matter.

"Yes, but _he_ is our leader, and he deserves a title. Now answer my question, please."

"Yeah…" he replied, trailing slightly. "We are. Why do you ask? Do you need confirmation?"

"I believe we got all the confirmation we needed a few hours ago," Wynne said, a small smile slipping onto her face, which she quickly banished. "Honestly, couldn't you have the boy bite down on a pillow or something? I think even the dwarves in Orzammar heard that one."

Alistair blushed. How was it his fault that Micha couldn't keep from crying out at every single, pleasurable sensation he experienced? He had lost count of how many times he had tried to get the elf to quiet down, failing every time.

"But the reason I ask," Wynne continued, "is because I wish to know what you are going to do next."

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Just how far are you intending to take this…relationship of yours?" Wynne elaborated. "You're both young—he even more so, barely out of childhood, in fact—and you've got the passion. But do you have the perseverance to have it last? Are you even _planning_ to have it last? Or is it merely a temporary fling or arrangement you have?"

"Why are _you_ so interested in this, exactly?" Alistair said, feeling put-out by the intense questioning. Her tone of voice had changed from that of a pleasant grandmother to that of an interrogator.

"Because we are all wondering," Wynne said, "if you are going to be able to do whatever it takes to stop this Blight, even if it means…"

"Dying?" Alistair finished, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, shaking his head. "This isn't something temporary, Wynne," he said. "At least…that's not how _I_ feel about it. I've never felt like this about anyone before."

"Do you love him?"

"What?"

Wynne repeated the question.

"I…think so?" Alistair said, stumbling over himself at the suddenness of the question. "I don't know. I think so. No, I know so. Yes, I do. I love him." He realised how ridiculous that sentence was, but only nodded. That's how he felt about Micha. "And don't think for a second that either of us would shy away from our duties as Grey Wardens," he continued. "We are both aware of the risks and odds. We have even talked about it. Wynne, if you are ever going to take me seriously, take me seriously on this. We _will_ do what it takes."

"Hm, that does not reassure me as much as I'd hoped," Wynne said, sighing. She was tired, Alistair knew, and this conversation was probably not making it better at all. "Perhaps I should ask him too…"

"Do that if you must," Alistair said, "but know that you will only receive the same answer."

"I certainly hope so," Wynne said, standing up with a yawn, wobbling slightly on her feet. Alistair was by her in a second, steadying her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned.

"Oh, yes," Wynne said, shaking him off her. "I'm just tired, and the battle today left me feeling quite…terrible."

"You _look_ terrible," Alistair said jokingly, grinning at her.

"Terrible like your cooking," Wynne said as she headed back to her tent.

"My cooking is superb, thank you very much," Alistair said. "Just because you're used to that posh tower food doesn't mean…er…crap." He stared down at the ground in failure. He thought he had had _such_ a good comeback to that, but it had died on its way out. He heard Wynne chuckle as she disappeared into her tent. "Damn you, old woman," he whispered.

* * *

"You're still a bit slow, my friend," Zevran said as he deflected a strike from Micha with his dagger. "Fighting with two blades requires a certain speed and finesse."

"One of which you possess in bed," Micha said, grinning. "And it's not the latter."

They were sparring in the large, open area just a bit away from the camp. They were on one of the last stretches of their journey now. The armies had formed and were gathering at Redcliffe, at Arl Eamon's estate. Micha and the others were on their way to Denerim, where they would call a Landsmeet and finally get rid of Loghain once and for all. Tension in the capitol were running high, apparently, and the arl, who had gone ahead of them, had begged them not to dawdle.

"How would you know, my dear Warden?" Zevran answered, smiling at the jibe. "You've yet to have the pleasure of joining me in my tent, after all."

"By all means, make me," said the Warden, lunging forward, sword and dagger points poised to impale Zevran's chest, which the Antivan easily dodged.

"As tempting as it is, I do not wish to measure my strength with that oaf of yours," he said, more or less dancing around Micha, striking out at random and irregular intervals, all of which the younger elf blocked or dodged easily.

"Alistair's not an oaf," Micha protested, aiming a blow at Zevran's knee. The ex-Crow jumped, the blade narrowly missing his shin. "Just because he's a bit slow doesn't mean—"

"Hey, I'm standing right here, you know!" Alistair yelled from the sidelines, where he was watching the sparring with Leliana and Oghren. Why the dwarf was interested in watching two elves fight, he didn't know, but his slightly slurred and drunken commentary was always a plus…had it not been for the fact that the dwarf was lying passed out behind them. The large Mabari hound, which Micha had so _cleverly_ named Dog, was also staring intently at the sparring.

"I've never claimed to be smart, but there's no need to insult me for it, right?" Alistair finished.

"Sorry, Alistair," Micha said, launching a roundhouse kick at Zevran, which caught the assassin by surprise and forced him to back away a few steps. Micha left him no opening and began a flurry of attacks, his blades clashing against Zevran's desperately blocking ones. For a moment, it looked like the Dalish elf was finally going to win against Zevran, but the Antivan had been fighting for far longer than Micha had, and knew many dirty tricks.

Jumping backwards, Zevran hooked his boot under a stray branch and launched it at Micha, who was barely able to dodge it before it smacked into his face. Now it was Zevran's turn to go on the offensive, turning into a whirlwind of blades as he gradually pushed Micha backwards. The Warden tried to defend himself, but Zevran's sword and dagger were just too fast, and the flat side of one smacked him in the face. Zevran crouched and swept Micha's legs out from underneath and sent the Warden crashing to the forest floor.

"And I believe that is game, set and match," Zevran said, the tip of his sword inches away from Micha's throat. "You lose, Warden."

"So what are you going to do with me now?" Micha asked jokingly. "Stare luridly at me?"

"I'm already doing that," Zevran said, indeed staring like so. "Had this been any other situation, had you been any other man or woman, I would have taken you and ravished you until you went blind with pleasure, but since—again—I do not wish to incur the rage of the templar, how about…oh, I don't know…five sovereigns?"

"Damn," Micha said, opening the pouch hanging from his belt. "That's the money I was going to spend in Denerim," he said sadly as he tossed five golden coins at Zevran, who snatched them out of the air like it was nothing.

"Correction: the money _I'm_ going to spend," Zevran said, grinning wickedly. He sheathed his blades and helped Micha back on his feet, patting the younger elf on the shoulder. "You're getting better, Warden, but you've still a long way to go."

Grumbling, Micha headed over to Alistair, Leliana and the comatose Oghren and sat down beside them. "I can't believe I just lost my shopping money…" he said to Alistair, who laughed.

"What have I told you about making bets with the assassin from Antiva?"

"_Don't_," Micha said, repeating Alistair's short and concise lesson. "It can only end in tears." He crossed his arms and glared at the retreating Zevran, who was flicking one of the coins—_his_ coin—into the air and catching it. The magnificent bastard was doing it on purpose, too.

"That's right," Alistair said.

"You're getting quite skilled, though" Leliana said. "You nearly had him that one time. It was _so_ close, too…"

"Eh, knowing Zev, he probably just faked it," Micha said, examining his dagger, which had suffered a rather nasty blow from Zevran's longsword. There didn't seem to be any nicks from what Alistair could see, but Micha did not look very pleased. "I'm pretty sure he could still run circles around me."

"Yeah, and he just did," Alistair said, grinning stupidly, recognising that his lover needed some encouragement. "And it looked ridiculous."

"Not any more ridiculous than me falling on my ass," Micha said, smiling despite himself. "And it hurt, too…"

"What, still sore?" Alistair asked, realising too late what he was implying. With a panicked look at Leliana, he scratched his neck and laughed nervously. "Uh…heh…heh…that's not what I meant, er…"

"I would have been surprised if you _weren't_ sore," Leliana said, grinning slightly herself, "the way you were going at it, it sounded like you were tearing him a n—"

"And enough about that!" Micha exclaimed, blushing.

"Heh, heh, asschabs," Oghren mumbled in his sleep.

* * *

Wandering through the streets of Denerim, they realised that the general ambience of the city had changed drastically since the last time they had been there. People were unusually dour, the marketplace almost deathly quiet and a sense of hopelessness seemed to permeate the very air. They passed by the Chantry, where the two sisters were still arguing about the right way to preach the scriptures right, and the closed-off cathedral, continuing through to the marketplace. On the way, Alistair did his best to ignore a very familiar door.

Micha noticed it and stopped, causing the entire party to halt in their progress.

"Give us a moment, guys," the elf said, waving them away. Understandingly, the rag-tag party dispersed throughout the marketplace, seeing an opportunity to get their errands done. Morrigan looked a bit annoyed, but that was normal for the witch. Ever since the death of Flemeth, the woman who had raised her only to be used as a vessel for her spirit, she had seemed…angrier than usual. But she did not say anything, only disappearing in the direction of the shop owned by the Tranquil.

"What's up?" Alistair asked, knowing fully well what was up.

"You're not going to visit her?" Micha asked, looking pointedly at the door. "This might be the last time we're in the city, you know…"

"She doesn't want to see me," Alistair said, shrugging, ignoring the slight sting in his chest, "why would I want to trouble her any further?"

"She's your sister, Alistair. Don't you want to make sure she's doing okay? What about your nieces and nephews?"

"I _do_ want to," Alistair said, sighing and leaning against a conveniently placed water barrel. "But I _don't_ want to at the same time. You heard her yourself, she despises me."

"She doesn't despise you," Micha said, shaking his head. "She's just…frustrated. Besides, the day we walked in that door and you declared yourself her brother, she wasn't exactly properly prepared for it either and she reacted negatively, like we usually do when caught off-guard. I'm sure that…if you went back to her now, she would at least hear you out."

Alistair stared at the young elf for a few seconds, taking in the features that so many humans thought of as pretty—to Alistair they were beautiful, indescribably so. Nodding slowly, he turned towards the door. "I guess…you're right," he said slowly. "Maybe I _should_ make another visit. Only to give her more money to support her children, if for nothing else."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Micha asked.

Alistair shook his head. "No…I think I want to do this by myself this time." He smiled crookedly. "Remember, she didn't exactly like you very much."

"True, true," Micha said. "What was it she called me? Your pack mule? Someone to carry your things around for you on your travels, like a proper king should have?"

"Don't start that again," Alistair warned, eyeing the door warily. He curled his hand into a fist, raised it and…hesitated. He looked back at Micha, who nodded and smiled. That was reassurance enough for him. He knocked.

* * *

Micha was still waiting by the wall of the opposite building, his arms crossed and head turned downwards. His eyes were closed, and it looked like he was sleeping—standing upright. Alistair swallowed the lump in his throat as he headed towards him. The elf's eyes opened as he approached, and they quickly softened upon taking in Alistair's shuffling walk.

"Didn't go too well, huh?" he asked gently.

"You could say that again," Alistair said, leaning against the wall beside him. "At least she didn't accuse me of killing our mother this time…"

"But?"

"But she spent quite a bit of time explaining why I would never be welcome in her house again." He closed his eyes and knocked the back of his head against the bricks. "She _really_ doesn't like me."

"I'm sorry, Alistair, I thought…I thought it would go better this time," Micha said sadly, looking at the ground, his boot shuffling slightly in the gravel. "I thought she just needed time…to adjust to the idea of having a brother…"

"Oh, she's adjusted, alright," Alistair said. "Which only makes the hate so much stronger. She said she didn't want them, but I left another fifteen sovereigns on her kitchen table. Even if she doesn't want me in her life, the least I can do is to help them with money, right?"

"I'm sure she appreciates it, deep down," Micha said. He looked up at Alistair, blue eyes brimming with sadness. "I'm sorry."

Alistair wanted so badly to kiss him right there and then and tell him it was okay, but they had both agreed to keep their relationship a secret while in public—they received enough ribbing from their party as it was. Plus, doing it right outside the Chantry just didn't sit very well with him. Instead he put a hand on Micha's shoulder, giving him that little secret smile he only reserved for him and squeezed.

"There's no need to be," he said. "I know you only wanted to help, and, really, I brought it on myself by bringing it up with you to begin with."

"I still wish things worked out between you two."

"Maybe they will," Alistair said, letting go of Micha's shoulder. "Time is the greatest healer, isn't that what everyone says. Who knows, maybe Goldanna will have a change of heart at some point."

"I hope so."

The rest of the conversation was put on hold as Zevran suddenly appeared from the throngs of shoppers, his eyes wide. He ran over to them, looking nothing like the calm, collected individual he usually was.

"There's something happening in the alienage," he said. "There has been a purge."

Alistair felt Micha stiffen up beside him. Micha never got along well with city elves, for some reason. Whether it was his Dalish nature shining through or the sheer rudeness many of the non-Dalish elves usually displayed, he didn't know, but Alistair had yet to see Micha interact with any of them without it turning into an argument. Well, except Zevran, of course, but he seemed to be one hell of an exception.

"A purge?" Micha asked. "By whom?"

"Some arl, apparently," Zevran replied. "I couldn't quite catch his name from the conversation I listened in on, but he seems to be one of Loghain's advisors."

Micha didn't say another word. He began to walk, pushing past Zevran and Alistair, heading directly for the large gate to the elven alienage, which was open for once. Alistair and Zevran gave each other a look before running to catch up with him.

As they passed through the gate, the human guard made a sniffing sound. "Might want to stay out, friend," he told Alistair, and Alistair specifically. "Plague's broken out in the alienage."

"I'll take my chances," Alistair said, glaring at the man before following Micha and Zevran.

* * *

"Maker's breath…" Alistair said as he took in the crumbling buildings, hovels and whatever else the elves of Denerim had made into homes and shelters. "I knew things in the alienage were bad, but this…"

There were still bodies in the streets, piled up along the walls, barely covered by large sheets. No wonder disease had broken out here. Here and there, scattered mourners noticed their presence and ran away, their heavily armed appearances surely not making the best first impression.

He was surprised some of the buildings still stood, their mottled and rotting supports barely holding them up. It was obvious that what little money came into the elves' hands went to food and other necessities rather than carpenters and new building materials. How could anyone live like this?

The stench of death filled the air, combining with an atmosphere of pure dread, fear and anger. Everywhere they went, elves could be seen staring at them from windows, from barely open doorways, none of them daring to approach, probably fearing another purge.

"Strange," Zevran mumbled to himself.

"What is?" Alistair asked, unable to tear his eyes off a small child, a girl, standing over the panting, dying body of a dog, her eyes frighteningly blank and unfeeling.

"The city elves in Antiva," the assassin said, "were all…fiercely proud of what they had, what little they could get and become. Here…it is like they have all given up before they could even give it a try." He had a strange look on his face, a mix of confusion, pity and…was that anger. "The humans have truly broken these people," he added.

"Hm," Alistair said, agreeing with Zevran for what must have been the first time ever, but not really showing it.

Their companion and leader had stayed silent ever since they had entered the alienage, his eyes scanning the area with unhidden despair. As much as he didn't get along with them, Micha was clearly feeling the plight and suffering of his fellow elves. His eyes were filling with unshed tears. Alistair wanted to do something, say something, to make him feel better, but _what_? What could possibly make the Warden smile after seeing this?

They reached what seemed to be the very centre of the alienage and the gathering point for the population. A large tree stood in the middle of the square, its leaves coloured in the brilliant spectrum of autumn, ready to shed its foliage at any time. A large group of elves had formed a line in front of what seemed to be a warehouse, in front of which a group of men stood. They seemed to be from Tevinter, which immediately set off warning lights in Alistair's head. When Tevinters and elves mix, bad things happen. The elves in the line were impatient, shouting and begging to be let inside what they were calling a quarantine area.

"What is this?" asked Zevran. "A quarantined area in the middle of a plague infestation?"

Alistair didn't answer, keeping a close eye on Micha, who was staring blankly at the gathered crowd. Of all the shouting and screaming voices, one seemed to be louder and clearer than the others.

"Go home, everyone!" a female elf was shouting, her hands clutched around a bottle of wine or some other alcoholic beverage. Her hair was a dark red which was braided in many places, not unlike Micha's own. Her words slurred slightly, obviously a bit drunk, but she seemed to be too angry to let that stop her. "There _is_ no plague; these people are only ripping you off!"

"Go home and sleep it off, Shianni!" a male elf called out. "It's not even noon and you're drunk!"

"Shut up, Shianni!" another woman said.

"If you want to get sick, then do so on your own!"

"We should go," Zevran said, sounding apprehensive. "This will not end well." Alistair felt inclined to agree.

"Does anything we ever do end well?" Micha asked suddenly, his face blank. "Just asking," he added as he headed towards the drunken girl—whose name was Shianni, apparently.

* * *

Everything had almost been a blur after speaking with Shianni. She had asked—after some initial apprehension regarding Micha's Dalish origins—them to investigate this so-called quarantine area the Tevinters had set up. It had turned out to be nothing more than a ruse to take the concerned elves of Denerim and sell them into slavery—condoned by none other than Loghain himself.

Few were the times Alistair had seen Micha truly angry—in fact, the elf seemed incapable of it at times—but after confronting the leader of the disgusting traders and besting him in single combat, Micha had seemed all but ready to cut the man's head off. But when the man offered to use the remaining elves' life force to enhance Micha's own…something had definitely clicked in the Warden's head.

It had required Alistair, Zevran and two other elves to pull him off the ruined corpse of the Tevinter man, and even then it had been a struggle. When Micha had refused to calm down, hysterically trying to attack the mutilated body again, Alistair had seen no other way than to knock the young elf unconscious with a well-aimed strike.

After leaving the alienage—promising Shianni to return with the fully conscious Micha later—they had met up with the rest of their party, most of whom had not seemed surprised at the turn of events after being updated on the situation. Tensions were running high between the elves and humans all over Denerim, and it seemed like all it would take was one final blow…

* * *

Alistair stared at the sleeping Micha, who was whimpering and muttering in his sleep, tossing and turning, positively writhing. The nightmares were one of the worst parts of being a Grey Warden, Alistair had decided. Ever since his Joining, he had been plagued by them, sometimes preventing him from sleeping altogether. Micha had them too, though his seemed to be more vivid, more…real.

They had decided to sleep at an inn for the night, none of them feeling all that comfortable in Arl Eamon's estate. For some of them it as the first time in months they had slept in real beds. Alistair couldn't. He wanted to be there when Micha woke up again, in case the elf decided to do something stupid and reckless—which was really more Alistair's forte, but nevertheless…

He was sitting in a chair next to the other Warden's bed. They had reserved a double room with two separate beds. Rumours ran rampant in the city, and they were barely covering their identities as Grey Wardens and public enemy number one as it was—they didn't need accusations of sodomy and heathen behaviour on top of it.

There was a knock on the door, and Alistair jumped slightly, not expecting it. It was in the middle of the night, and he had been quite sure everyone had fallen asleep. Still, warily, he pulled a small dagger out of his pack and carefully opened the door; preparing to stab whoever was on the other side should they be an enemy.

They might as well have been. Zevran gave him a quick, careless grin as he strode into the room, not even asking for permission.

"What do you want?" Alistair asked, sighing and putting the dagger.

"To see how my favourite Grey Warden is doing," the assassin said, looking at the sleeping form in the bed. "Still out of it, yes? Are you quite sure did not give him a concussion on top of it all? Or have you knocked him out once more with your ravishing?"

Alistair blushed, clearing his throat. "What kind of a question—"

"It was a joke, my good friend Alistair," Zevran said, looking around the room. "I know you do not have the stamina for it."

"Wha—"

Zevran chuckled, clearly enjoying how flustered he could make Alistair.

"Zevran, I don't have the patience for this. What do you _really_ want?"

"To be quite honest, I am not sure," the Antivan elf said, slumping into the chair Alistair had been sitting in. "I want to say that this is only a visit in which I get the opportunity to stare at the subject of my interest as he sleeps, but that is not the entire truth."

"Then what is?" asked Alistair. He really didn't like the assassin. No matter how many times he had fought and killed enemies by his side, Alistair couldn't help but imagine him sneaking around camp and cutting their throats while laughing to himself. That, and he _certainly_ didn't like they way Zevran got way too affectionate and hands-on whenever around Micha. There was no doubt that Zevran had set his eyes on the young Warden and would not stop until he had bedded him, but Alistair had thought he would back off after they…well…

"I am almost ashamed to say that our visit to the alienage today and our discoveries therein rattled me in a most unpleasant way," Zevran said. "I feel…sympathy for my fellow elves, as it were."

"And? Is that such a strange or unpleasant thing?" Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, wait, you're an _assassin_, compassion isn't exactly one of your well-known qualities, how silly of me." He added humourless chuckle.

"You can laugh all you want—you really do have a pleasant laugh—but such is the truth. I had hoped to discuss this with your lover, but it appears this will have to wait," said Zevran, standing up again. "I shall come back later."

"Oh, joy of joys," Alistair said, opening the door for the elf as he approached, wanting to make sure it hit Zevran on the proverbial—and very real—ass on his way out.

"You are aware that we are competing, are you not?" Zevran asked before Alistair could close the door completely. This caused the templar to halt, staring at the elf through the crack.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Zevran grinned. "You may have the upper hand and advantage at the moment, my dear templar, but believe you me—the second you slip, I will be there to pick up the slack." With that, he was gone, disappearing down the hallway towards the room he shared with Sten.

They had considered putting Zevran and Oghren in the same room, but considering the dwarf's tendency to put his _moves_ on anything and everyone when he was drunk, Oghren had been given his own room. But given Sten's comments to Morrigan about the act of Qunari lovemaking…perhaps that had been Zevran's plan all along. His teeth seemed quite strong.

Alistair closed the door, his brow wrinkling. Competing? About what? As if he didn't know that already. He glanced at the sleeping Micha. So much responsibility and unfairness heaped upon such a young and innocent being…it was enough to make a man scream.

"Ali…?" a weak voice asked, causing him to whirl around. Micha was staring at him with bleary eyes, looking more than slightly confused. "Where…?"

"At an inn," Alistair said, easing himself into the chair, leaning forward. "Do you remember what happened?"

"The alienage…" Micha said, rubbing his eyes. He looked so positively ruined that Alistair began to worry that he really _had_ given the elf a concussion. "The Tevinter slaver…" His eyes widened. "Mythal…what have I done?"

"You gave him what for, that's what you did," said Alistair, taking the elf's hand in his and rubbed it softly. "Though, admittedly, you got a bit…carried away. Had to knock you out to get you to stop. I'm sorry. Does it hurt?"

"I feel woozy…"

"Oh, no…"

"And I'm hungry…"

"Heh, that is easily remedied," Alistair said uncertainly, not liking the sound of him feeling woozy. "I can nip down and get you some uniformly grey goo, if you'd like."

"…don't we have any bread?" Micha asked, looking at his bed sheets, as if embarrassed by the request. "I don't think I'd be able to handle your cooking right now…"

"I am waiting for the 'no offense' part of that sentence," Alistair said after a brief pause.

"There is none, Alistair; your cooking truly is awful." Micha flashed him a weak grin.

"A dagger in my heart," Alistair said, clutching at an imaginary weapon stuck in his chest. He rose from his chair, still holding Micha's hand softly. "I'll see what I can find. I'll bring my horrible cooking when we go back to the alienage tomorrow—maybe _they_ will appreciate it." He wanted to bite his tongue off as soon as he realised that he had somewhat unintentionally mocked the inhabitants of the alienage. He hardly dared to look at Micha, who, surprisingly, was smiling at the joke.

"I'm sure they will," the elf said.

Almost sighing in relief, Alistair let go of Micha's hand and headed for the door. Just as he opened it, he heard his name spoken weakly again. He looked back at Micha.

"Thank you," the elf said.

"For what?" Alistair asked.

"For…being you, and…being there…for me."

Alistair smiled and went wordlessly back to Micha and kissed him.

* * *

**Hope I didn't screw personalities up **_**too**_** badly.**


End file.
